Of Slaves and Traders
by SchizoRhitzo
Summary: A short walk through Acre leaves Altair with less than pleasant emotions. Inspired by codex page XIV. UPDATE: just putting all the random Assassin's Creed drabble I have on here now. Content will vary chapter to chapter.
1. I

idk I was bored. just sorta thought about how he might've been inspired to write some of the codex pages.

* * *

It was a mistake coming to Acre. The air was too hot, the crowds too loud. He could taste the _disease_, the sweat, the metal. He longed to freely run across the rooftops, unrestrained and free of the common citizen. But he was on the ground for a reason, he reminded himself. The eagle of Masyaf was on a mission.

His eyes wandered, as did his attention. A bad habit he developed in childhood that never quite went away, but it aided him in being aware of his surroundings. Today, it was to work to his disadvantage.

Another slave chain was being auctioned, right here. So close to home. His fingers dug into his palms in well restrained disgust. The slave trader had one eyesocket laid bare to the world, skin long grown over as if it were just another part of his face. He was making wide sweeping gestures to his captives, pointing enthusiastically as numbers erupted from a dozen different lips. Displayed as animals, knockneed and wide eyed, were the slaves.

Some were children, some were women. All were malnourished, their arms as thin as sticks and their legs caked in dry dirt. Between them they shared a long rope tethered to their wrists, which was sufficient enough in their current condition. One little Indian boy with large doe-ish eyes and hair like feathers looked over the crowd timidly. Altair's heart - for he did have one - dropped to his toes as he strained to hear the young one speak.

"Papa," he heard the child call in a heavy accent. It was high pitched and breathy, a recognition of something lost. "Papa."

He had interrupted the auction, had interrupted his master. The women screamed as he hit the ground, vile words thrown in his direction courtesy of the slave trader. The auctioneers merely watched, impatient. Their mouths were soon pulled back in sneers, indifferent and eager to continue. Instinct and human compassion screeched for Altair to move, his legs burning with the effort of standing still. To calm the urge he closed his eyes, taking silent deep breaths. He envisioned himself briskly walking toward the slave trader, fists curling and at the ready. He imagined the rough scrape of the man's beard as he delivered a calculated punch to his throat, effectively knocking the bastard out cold. All the sick _men_ and their _money_ would scatter, trampling one another in their panic. Then his hidden blade would cut the rope, his gaze shifting to the wide eyed doe boy as the words "Thank you" rolled out of his parched throat-

But he didn't. Couldn't. The Creed, that damn _Creed_ he never thought he would damn in his entire life, was so ingrained. He could recite the exact words - Keep in the dark, never draw attention to yourself - and so stood there, rage boiling over and blood rushing in his ears. Don't be a hero, be a coward. Be selfish. It is the only way to survive. It is the way of the Assassins.

Later he would hate himself for being a slave to his own teachings, like the religious crusaders he had slaughtered so many times before. Later, he would stare at the stars and think, deprived of sleep by his own guilt (and rightfully so). But for now, he needed to get as far away from the repulsive one eyed slave trader as soon as possible, before he did anything reckless and endangered them all.

So he did what he could not do. He turned around and walked away, his heart breaking in ways that nearly caused him physical agony.

The doe eyed boy did not get back up.


	2. II

procrastination from doing school work

da da daaa something interesting will happen next chapter promise

* * *

The rest of the day was broken down into blurry fragments: the soft tinkle of metal, whispered greetings from hooded faces, a thousand identities reduced to a pair of nose and lips; the scent of sweat and incense tickling the roof of the mouth - then Maria's eyes, so strong, even sensual, her arms extending in invitation –

And yet he could enjoy none of it. Here he was, a man of detail, and detail failed him. A man of self discipline and emotional control, but he couldn't stop feeling _anger_, bitter and pulpy, rise in his throat. It grew so thick it coated his mouth and rotted his teeth, rendering him silent. He withdrew into himself, nodding or frowning his approval at everyone who came by, his 4 fingered hand reaching for the quill and ink as time brushed past his fingers. . .

He worked long after the sun had set, his hand never wavering, handwriting precise and bold, everything he could not say aloud now out of his crowded head and recorded for the ages. He was aware of another presence as he finished, stone still and emotionless. The air smelled of ink, and his lips moved before he realized they were open.

"Malik. I thought you were in Jerusalem?"

"I've come back for a breather, if you will. I've allowed a novice to watch over the bureau for me in the time being."

"What is it you need, brother?" Altair's gaze shifted slowly over his friend's obscured features; from the dark he could still make out the Rafiq's hawk like features, from his pointed nose to his wide mouth devoid of humor. And most importantly, the eyes that seemed made of jagged marble, trained so intently on his form. He noticed the milky silver light covering his own hands, showing off the cracks and veins from years of murder. Compared to Malik, he must of looked so vulnerable, back to the wide window arched above and below him. So different compared to the master they had both kneeled in front of at the very table he was writing on.

The young replacing the old, a cycle measured by parchment. These journals and scrawlings would be the only things left of him as the cycle continued. With Maria, maybe he'd leave something more.

"I didn't take you for a writer, much less an artist." The words were as friendly as Malik would let them be, which was significantly warmer than what they were a couple of years ago. He had yet to step into the light, instead running his thumb over the tapestry that proudly displayed the symbol of the Assassins. Altair took this opportunity to begin rolling his entry into a neat scroll.

"You looked through my work?" Altair's lips twitched, a small sign of surprise.

"A young foolish man once told me," Malik began, eyes twinkling with wit as he stepped into the moonlight, "Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Learn these words." It was a rare side to him that Altair was glad to see.

Altair snorted, depositing his scroll in the vase by his feet. "Point taken."

"Something troubles you, brother. You were never the quietest one amongst us."

"Nothing of concern to the brotherhood." Despite the easy dismissal of his claim, Malik knew his words rang true. A crease formed on his forehead. To say he was worried would be inaccurate, but to say he was indifferent wouldn't be entirely true either.

"But it is of concern to you, and because of that a concern to me. Out with it." His voice was clipped, impatient. The same old Malik Altair had known from childhood.

"It shouldn't be. But it is," Altair sighed, turning to look out the window. He told a brief recollection of what had happened that day, how it made him question things. Malik never once looked at him, eyes instead focusing on the folded sleeve where his arm used to be. Altair wondered as he finished if his friend still held his old foolishness against him, no matter what he had said at the battle of Masyaf.

"You were wise for not interfering."

"Wise, or a coward?"

"You thought before making a decision. I'd call that wise."

"Was it the right decision though?" Altair turned to look at him again, absentmindedly touching his mutilated half finger. The touch then traveled over the joints and scars, softly. His knuckles were cold. Eventually his gaze wandered back to the Rafiq, awaiting a reply. Perhaps there was a subtle tone in his voice, or a look in his eye, for Malik did not answer at first. They met eye to eye for a moment, and Altair realized then Malik looked almost filled with empathy, almost touched with compassion. Almost.

The Rafiq sighed and made his way to the shelves, thumbing the dust-covered spines they sheltered. "We are not right or wrong, and you know that. The way we do things is not right or wrong. What separates us from the Templars isn't – _cannot _be categorized by morality."

"So we are not to be held accountable for basic human responsibilities?" Altair challenged him now, eyes flickering like coals in the dying light. A shadow passed over the moon, rendering them both in shadow.

"You removed yourself from that obligation the moment you used your blade." Malik scanned his friend's face, as if looking for something enscribed in his skin. No condemnation, no hatred. Only fact. "We all did. Guilt is a wasted emotion on something you cannot change."

His words carried a double meaning Altair was quick to catch on to. He had to admire the man; like a true assassin, he knew what his comrades were thinking before they did. The name Kadar was no longer a taboo word he had to keep clutched to his chest, to use as a weapon against his friends. Altair was no longer looking at him, though his voice betrayed relief.

"I understand. Thank you, brother."

For once, Malik smiled. "Even a master sometimes needs guidance."

* * *

Cool air harmoniously mixed with the sounds of nature, reaching the master assassin's ears in half heard notes. They swirled into a vibration, a tune, then a hum. His eyes cracked open into slits; dust motes danced past his vision. He must've not been sleeping long, as the moon was still out. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, they caught a form swaying in the window sill. It was bathed in blue, the distinct tint of an ally. He recognized the soft slim curves of Maria, beckoning him out of bed with a finger. He complied, opening his mouth to question her presence when she turned her back to him. He raised a scarred eyebrow, instinctively grabbing for her as she slipped out of the window and fell into the darkness. His hands gripped the edge of the window and his heart was pounding in his ears, so suddenly he became confused, so abruptly he considered following her off the ledge . . .

Then he remembered his room had no windows.

Her face emerged from the blackness below, her outstretched hand clutching for his. Before he could pull back she yanked him off the ledge. He fell without grace, unbearably fast, until he wasn't sure whether he was screaming or it was simply the wind whipping past his ears. He was dragged down down _down_ until his eagle vision failed him, until he no longer felt Maria pulling on his arm, and he floated like a dust mote in an endless sea of nothingness. In his robes he could suddenly feel the Apple, much to his surprise. Hastily he grabbed for it, lighting up the void that had enveloped him. It illuminated a thousand faces, all whispering in languages he didn't understand, all blind to him.

He pushed through their ranks, his fingers passing through their insubstantial forms as he continued forward. They ignored him. Some flickered into focus and out, like ghosts made of ink. In the middle of it was Maria, her expression lost and almost frightened. This wasn't like her, something must've been wrong. The more she pushed against the crowd to reach him, the thicker it became. His feet felt like lead and refused to move despite his best efforts. He was forced to stand there, her strangely desperate eyes fixed on his expressionless face until it too was lost in the throng of shadows.

It was only then that the merciful embrace of unconsciousness saved him.


	3. Scientific Endeavors

okay to be honest i got bored of writing that other story really quickly so i've decided to just dump all oneshots related to ac i have here instead. i wrote this really late at night on a whim, hope it's not too boring

* * *

The sun was beginning to settle on the line of Rome's horizon, another breathtaking day in a land where breathtaking things happened on an hourly schedule. It cast merciful shadows on the already well hidden assassin's guild, but if one pressed their ear close to the door they would hear heated bickering.

At his sister's insistent proposal, Ezio Auditore da Firenze had decided to take the evening to see his close friend Leonardo da Vinci. He hadn't really had a choice in the matter, because _no one_ denied Claudia when she willed something to pass. A direct and stubborn streak, he remarked in passing, that she had gotten from her mother. She merely huffed and shoo'd him out of the guild faster. To be honest, he was happy; though an assassin's work was never done, he sorely missed just laying on Leonardo's couch and _relaxing _for once, flexing his fingers and watching the genius paint. Tonight, it would be like old times again.

When he finally arrived, he found something else entirely.

Knowing his friend long enough, he never bothered knocking on the door anymore. It always amused him to see Leonardo's startled expression besides, and he waltzed past the front door with a smile. "Leonardo, what are you..."

Ezio was left dumbfounded, the sentence trailing off into shocked silence. The inventor had his hands deep in the chest of a corpse, the eyes peacefully closed. The face seemed tranquil, oblivious of their body's destruction. All but sleeping save the blood. The stench hit him shortly after, faint but unforgettable. He had smelled the dead before, but always under the mask of gunpowder or coal, never in a cold room under candlelight. His hand instinctively gripped the doorway, eyes betraying his subconscious wariness now that the hood no longer hid them from the world.

Leonardo turned his head in surprise, looking as tranquil as the body he was busy examining. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing pale, freckled arms and bony wrists, the hands clutching at something Ezio could not see and probably did not want to. Silence threatened to choke them both in their own surprise. A good minute passed before the artist finally managed to speak. "Ah, Ezio. I am sorry you had to see this."

"Is this what you do in your . . . spare time, my friend?" Ezio found himself straining to keep a calm tone. The blood is not what had disturbed him, by any means. But he had not expected the soft, gentle mannered, inquisitive Leonardo to so much as sniff a dead body, much less...

"Ah, in a way, yes." He blushed - BLUSHED - it what could almost be mistaken for embarrassment. In his current condition, arms stained to the elbow from another human being's insides, it hardly seemed appropriate. Ezio frowned, willing himself to take a step forward but unable to.

"This is...not the sort of hobby I had expected you to engage in, to be honest . . ." the assassin trailed off. They locked eyes for a moment. Leonardo suddenly regarded him with a hard stare, expression unreadable.

"Ezio, I am going to get straight to the point with you. This frightens you, does it not?"

Directness was not something the assassin had been expecting either. He only then caught the tiny veins bulging from his friend's wrists, the unpronounced muscles on his forearms. They looked strange in this light - then again, perhaps strange wasn't the word he was going for. They looked . . . capable. Capable of things he hadn't thought about before.

"To be honest, Leonardo . . . yes."

"Ah, then come closer. You deserve nothing less than an explanation for this."

Hesitantly he obliged, daring to only go so far, not wanting the blood to congeal on his boots. Leonardo pulled his hands - thank whatever god may exist - out of the cadaver, but they too were covered in crimson, and other fluids Ezio did not want to ponder over. He immediately began talking, voice slow but firm. "You are no stranger to death, Ezio. You deal with dying every day of your life, yes?"

"Why ask me such a question when the answer is obvious?" Ezio's brow furrowed. The smell . . . it was going to drive him mad slowly but surely.

Leonardo chuckled, and the assassin could not help but shudder. There was something completely WRONG about the calm, nonchalant way his friend watched his every twitch he made.

"I wanted to ask you, to see if you would notice the difference between the two."

"What?"

"Dying and death. You deal with dying every day of your life, the action, the physical and emotional MOVEMENT of the END of movement." He was pacing now, the insane genius at work, conscious of where his hands touched if nothing else. Ezio watched him with a well trained stare, and was surprised (yet again) when he found himself tense. It was instinct, and usually natural, but not around Leonardo. It never was supposed to be. He was supposed to be the one man he could confide in, confess to, trust. . . "I, on the other hand, prefer to deal with death. The unemotional, scientific process of decay and rot." Leonardo looked back at him, with warm compassion. It didn't help in the slightest; Ezio only felt sicker from the stark contrast in Leonardo's presence and the room as a whole. "You know how to kill a man, and I know precisely why he dies." Leonardo returned to the cadaver, eyes focused downward intently.

Ezio, without realizing it, had taken a step back. Paranoia had convinced him for one irrational and regrettable moment that his friend, his _friend,_ was hiding throwing knives in the dead man's chest cavity, waiting to strike. What he pulled out instead, was a human heart. It had long since stopped beating, but the shape itself fascinated Ezio, how ugly it truly was. "Every time you take a life, you are ending this organ here. Sometimes you puncture it. Severe the tubes allowing it to pump blood through the body and give it life." Curiosity was beginning to overcome the assassin's initial discomfort, but not enough to make him want to go anywhere _near_ the body. He remained silent, allowing Leonardo to continue his speech. "From rumors I have heard among the guards, it is also the last thing to burn in a fire." Leonardo motioned again, and Ezio finally garnered the courage to step within three feet of his friend. Slowly, unsurely, he looked down at the body.

He nearly screamed at what he saw. This jumble of tissue, this cold and gray mass was no longer a man. It was a horror unlike anything he had ever seen before, and his eyes were drawn to the incredibly odd structure of the lungs deflated over the popped sac that had encased what his friend now held like a trophy in his hands.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Leonardo muttered almost dreamily, looking over the veiny organ cupped in his palms. Ezio did not reply, merely looked away, expression blank. The inventor continued his speech passionately. "You and I are like this, every man, woman and child. This is what is beneath us, beneath the beauty. This." He pulled one hand away from the heart and ran his digit over the ridge of flesh lovingly, barely dipping a free finger into the valley of organs. Ezio winced in subconscious empathy. "This pulsating abomination all working in synchronization to give us life and thought. Efficient, durable, perfect."

The way he said 'perfect' made Ezio turn his head to him again, at a loss. "You call this...perfect?" He tried to keep his tone curious instead of condemning, puzzled among other emotions he could not discern.

Leonardo stroked the heart in an almost affectionate manner, smiling just as he always did, just as Ezio always remembered it. "Yes. It has kept you going through many situations, has it not?" he chuckled again, putting the heart on an empty desk he had covered in a disposable, thick cloth. The assassin looked down at the body again. This was him; this was Claudia, his mother, his father and brothers. This is what was inside them when they lived, when they died. He would never kiss a woman again without thinking of how her heart writhed just inches beneath her skin, would never hug Leonardo without envisioning the sacs of his lungs inflating and deflating underneath his freckled chest.

He finally understood how Leonardo found humanity both ugly and beautiful, began to grasp their dual qualities. His shoulders began to relax, and he strode towards Leonardo to clap him over the back in a friendly manner (wary of the blood, of course). The smile that had faded when he entered the workshop now returned, weakly. "I suppose it has, my friend, I suppose it has."


End file.
